The Real Burden
by I-am-a-bunny
Summary: Sweet moments between John and Sherlock where Sherlock continues to hide his love for fear of burdening John, they both protect each other constantly.
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't as if John was always Sherlock's caretaker. Yes, he was a doctor, and a soldier, (as he often reminded people) but on more than one occasion, he'd needed Sherlock too. The great detective was his greatest weakness as well as his greatest strength; and though he always worried, little did he know that Sherlock never stopped worrying back for a second.

Like that time they'd teamed up to unearth a grave, just to figure out if the person buried there was who the tombstone said he was. John argued against digging it up vehemently, as anyone with common sense would, but Sherlock protested so much it was quite out of his hands to do anything but follow.

"Holmes, what in GOD'S name would a tombstone be lying about?" John snapped as he dug his shovel into the Earth. "It's a slab of stone, dammit." He was angrier than usual, and his companion noticed, a bit regretfully.

"It's a very complicated matter John. Tombstones can be replaced. Bodies can't" He glanced over at his friend, his hands red and trembling already. His chest was heaving, and his hair seemed.. Grayer than usual. Sherlock quickly realized. He'd been overworking.

"Sorry" he added, stealing quick glances over at his friend, mentally kicking himself for not having noticed. John stumbled a bit, nearly fell.

"It's fine. Let's just get this over with"

"No, it's not"

The digging stopped, at least on the detective's side. John's shovel still pierced the soil.

"John, answer me honestly. When was the last time you got any sleep?"

"What a joke, look who's asking. Have you slept more than an hour this week? Incredible!" John's cutting sarcasm was far from out of character, but it hurt either ways. Sherlock was actually trying to be _caring_ for once. It wasn't easy.

Without an answer, he deduced it. He hadn't heard John's usual snoring for the past couple days, and he'd only been out in the daytime; whenever he'd seen him, John would have a cup of coffee at his hands. He hadn't slept for at least three days, undoubtedly. Without another word, Sherlock wrenched the shovel from his friend's hands and turned.

"Where are you off to n-" John stumbled, then fell to the ground at the sudden movement. It'd made him dizzy. Sherlock had got him.

In the conversation, and quite literally. The first thing John saw when he looked up was one outstretched hand to his face and another resting on his shoulder.

"Come on then, John." His voice was soft, a bit like a child's. "You're human, not me."

John refused the hand, as Sherlock knew he would, and hobbled up. "Alright, alright." He took the shovel from his companion. "We'll get some rest, how bout that."

Sherlock smiled a bit to himself. It'd occurred to him on more than one occasion that John viewed himself as a bit of a hinderance; a nasty little human who needed to be cared for and got in the way of the "great detective's fine machinery". Needless to say, what he'd always wanted to say suddenly became more important than ever.

He didn't quite know how to say it.

"John" he said, as they finally entered the solitude of their apartment. His friend turned, and suddenly, at the sight of his weary face, he lost the courage. But he had to say something.

"You're more than just… another.. Shovel to me" He managed to sputter out.

John smiled, his innocent, radiant smile. "Thanks, I.. I think." he managed before he stumbled into bed.

Oh, John. If anyone was a burden, if anything was a burden, it was this:

The feelings that weighed on Sherlock's heart.


	2. Chapter 2

John stretched and finally woke to the swaying tune of his friend's violin, which he played remarkably well, despite the rest of his eccentricities. His eyes quickly focused on the source - Sherlock was playing at the edge of the room, looking out at the city, as if he were performing for the people themselves. He hadn't meant to wake him up, John knew. If he had, he would have woken to the violin straight in front of his face. Granted, that'd only happened once. And only because Sherlock had made some ridiculous chemical concoction that had filled the entire flat with toxic gas, requiring all tenants in the building to evacuate. When he thought about it, his friend always seemed reluctant to wake him up. It was counterintuitive; especially considering his loneliness. But maybe he didn't mind. Maybe he just went on talking.

"Sherlock" he called out. "Did you figure the case out yet? I-"

"No need, John." Sherlock tossed his bow to the side and turned. He'd anticipated the question.

"What? Did you dig it up yourself?"

"I didn't have to." He eyed his partner. The game was on, and it was brilliant! And no part of the game, no part, was as fun as toying with John, keeping him guessing, _impressing_ him. Nothing was more fun than impressing John.

"Pack your bags."

About ten minutes later, clothes and newspapers and Sherlock's jars of organs were being flung across the room, much to the dismay of , who insisted there was "no way she'd clean up this mess", five minutes before she began sweeping.

"Mind me asking where on Earth we're off to?" John finally attempted to pry an answer from his friend.

"Switzerland."

"Ah. well.." John paused. "Why?"

Sherlock swung his coat about his shoulders and lifted his bag. "Because the tombstone lied, John. He's on the loose, the most brilliant criminal mastermind I've ever known. And what he's after is nothing short of a power play, it's tantalizing, it's the superpower every villain always wanted."

"What would that be?" Sherlock stepped closer, into the curious embrace of his colleague's eyes.

"Antimatter..."

It was evening by the time John had finished packing, weary as he always was. He hadn't wrapped his mind around the case yet; hell, he hadn't wrapped his mind around what Sherlock had even said. But regardless, he had to come along - he was the doctor. And that was, as he assumed, all he'd ever be to his best friend. He quickly realized his thoughts had been uninterrupted and looked up. "Is anything the matter?" he inched towards his somber looking partner. He didn't say a word.

"You can tell me, you know."

"Tell you what?"

"If there's anything, you know.. Wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong." He still hadn't looked him in the eye. Which meant he was lying.

"Sherlock, for god's sakes, I-"

"The only thing that's wrong is I'm dragging you to CERN Switzerland where the greatest criminal mastermind I've ever known is attempting to steal the most dangerous weapon ever created that has the potential to destroy the Earth the second it contacts anything made of matter." John still couldn't see his eyes. Obviously, he was having a difficult time keeping emotions from them. But he wouldn't admit that.

"Sherlock, what would be wrong," John countered, "Is if you were facing this potentially deadly case all on your own. I'd sock you for that."

"I know."

He still hadn't turned. John could tell he was smiling.

"Now then." He lifted the bags once again, this time with the intention to actually lift them up to the door. "We'll miss our flight."


	3. Chapter 3

The remarkable thing about disguises is that everybody wears them. A mask of formality to work? Of course. A smiling face for the customers? Definitely. People holding hands with people they don't love, the father who beats the child he could never hate.

Feelings locked into a stone cold heart, they're all disguises. Every one of them.

Which was why John didn't think twice when the barista at the London City Airport seemed so familiar, and his coffee tasted so strange.

"Is there anything wrong with yours?" He turned to Sherlock, who, as always, was entirely engrossed in some extraneous website that had nothing to do with anything. This time, it was tropical fish.

"Hm? Oh. Too much sugar." He finally replied. His eyes fixed on the screen. John grunted, slightly annoyed.

"There's two sugars."

"Mm, two and a half."

"They were slightly larger packets." John huffed, exasperated, and downed his foul - tasting coffee.

Through all his searching, Sherlock quickly became enamored with the angelfish; a fish intelligent enough to recognize its owner, a fish loyal enough to breed for life. Yet it was strong, too, strong enough to stand up for itself, strong enough to even attack other fish. Strong, and loyal..

Didn't that remind him of someone?

The announcement rang; "Final boarding, flight 657 about to depart." Sherlock started. _Final_ boarding? They'd been sitting around the whole time!

"John!" he finally looked up, only to find his companion fast asleep. He softened. Had he really been that tired?

"John" he shook him, as gently as he could. He never felt right, waking his friend up. John was the hardest worker he knew, and here he was, making him work even harder. His friend's eyes finally, _finally_ squeezed open, just a bit, as if the light was blinding. He looked a bit like a tired child.

"Come on, then." Sherlock heaved up his bag and stood, attempting to veil his concern.

They rushed over to the attendant and Sherlock whipped out the tickets, unapologetic of the late arrival, as he usually was.

"It checks out, sir." She beamed, quite annoyingly, he thought. "But where's .. John Watson?" She read from the other ticket.

"What?" Sherlock turned.

John wasn't behind him. In fact, he'd just barely managed to leave his seat. But his bags stayed put, which indicated .. he was too weak to move them?

"John!" Sherlock called out, and sprinted over to his friend. "Are you all right?" He stared him squarely in the face. There was no way his bags had suddenly become so heavy. He'd carried them easily the day before. Something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"Don't worry, Sherlock." John started, reading his friend's intricate, genius mind like a book. "I just feel a bit feverish, is all. I can carry -" But sherlock had already wrenched the bags from his friend's hands, and carried all three - one thrown across his shoulder, and two in his hands.

"Can you walk?" his eyes hadn't left John's the entire time.

"Of course I can walk."

"Off we go, then"

The two scrambled into the flight just before take off.


	4. Chapter 4

Alan Turing was the genius who won a war with his mind, the cryptographer who cracked the enigma, the man who blurred the line between humans and computers. His mind must've been a computer itself, but it couldn't _possibly_.

"If a machine is expected to be infallible, it cannot also be intelligent" he reflected, almost in reply. That is, that even the greatest mathematician, the greatest man, is bound to have had made mistakes along the way. And if a computer weren't allowed such precious mistakes that paved the way to such a greater understanding, how would it ever climb to those heights?

Turing made a brilliant point. He made many brilliant points. His mind won a war.

But it didn't matter, because Turing loved men, not women. That made him wrong. Wrong about _everything._ "Correct him," they said, and he took the medication, took it till his limbs trembled, till his humanity crumbled away.

Turing killed himself in 1954, but there wasn't much left for him to take. They found cyanide in him, and his mother insisted it was an accident, that he always left things lying around, that he was careless. It was suicide, ruled the inquest.

What else would a mother have said?

This entire story shot through Sherlock like a bullet, too fast for him to realize it'd crossed his mind, too fast for him to question why he'd thought of it.

"John? Are you feeling alright?" he pressed his hands on his friend's forehead, got them shrugged off, and reluctantly recoiled into his seat after a couple other attempts. _Fine._ He didn't break his stare for a second.

His eyes. They were red, bloodshot, exhausted eyes. But he'd gotten a healthy sleep the night before, so no, not exhaustion. Sherlock shook his head and dismissed the thought. _He was an idiot._ John had seemed eager for the trip, even enthusiastic on the airport. What had happened?

 _He'd asked him something._

Why couldn't he remember? He'd been asking, holding something, and that something wasn't a laptop, not a cellphone, not..

Sherlock's eyes latched at John again. His fingers. They were clean, they were moist. _Moist._ Had he washed his hands? Had he caught something at the bathroom? A cold couldn't possibly be caught so quickly, could it? He didn't know, he wasn't the doctor, now was he? His doctor was nodding, reddening, drifting to sleep. Sherlock's heart tightened.

 _What had John asked?_

"John, don't sleep, not yet." Sherlock shook at him, but John's eyes were the curtains at the end of a play. Usually, it was okay, but not now. Something scared him, which meant he knew something, but he couldn't catch on to what.

Suddenly, he became hyper aware of the heart beating under John's crisp shirt, which wasn't surprising considering the outrageous speed at which it was doing it.

" _Is your coffee okay?"_ John had asked him. He wanted to kick himself.

His had been perfectly fine.

"John! Stay with me!" Sherlock shouted, his voice trembling over the words. Tiredness, the rapid heartbeat, his obvious dizziness, the onset...

The thought Sherlock had brushed off earlier dawned on him.

"John, I'm aware you're not in an optimal state of mind right now." He talked as calmly as he could, as carefully as he knew. "You're a doctor, I know you've already realized something's terribly wrong so I'll just tell you what it _is_ , all right? It's salts John, cyanide salts, in the milk in your coffee that affected you and not me. Why? Because I don't take milk in my coffee." He drew in a breath. The only thing keeping him going were John's eyes, just barely open, but gazing at him, softly but surely. Maybe he even understood him.

"I'm going to have this plane land. It's going to be all right John. Stay with me. Please."

John coughed, just a bit, and strained his eyes to search for his detective. Where had he run off to? His thoughts swayed, as if he were drunk, but he understood. He was going to die, most certainly, his heart gave it away. The plane was flying, and flying, and there was nowhere he could go, and nothing he could do, except die right there with the clouds. He heard something, as if the voice were swimming underwater, from Sherlock. He closed his eyes. He was probably talking about tropical fish.

"I'm MYCROFT HOLMES." Sherlock flashed his brother's credentials and accounts on his phone screen. "I'll show you bank statements. Government secrets. ANYTHING. I'm Mycroft Holmes, and you listen to me, this plane is going to LAND." He pressed the phone in the attendant's' hands.

"Now." he murmured, with the most threatening Mycroft impression he could muster.

Sherlock rushed back to John's side as the announcement triggered groans throughout the plane. "We'll be heading down for an emergency stop, sorry for the inconvenience" droned an overly lazy pilot.

Without a thought, he cupped his hands around John and held him close. "Don't panic." he whispered automatically in response to John's breathing and racing heart.

"I'm here." he struggled with the words, but John, beautiful John, even in his drugged state understood what he meant to say. He felt him relax in his arms.

"I think you know about this" Sherlock whispered. "But right now, your body can't absorb oxygen. That's why you're short of breath, that's why you're going to feel nauseous, that's why you felt so weak with the bags earlier. What I need you to do is stay calm. All right? I know you know that already. Don't forget what you know, John."

"I feel sick" John managed to mumble. The airplane finally shot down, and John heaved.

The detective held John tightly through the descent. They'd be fine. "There's an ambulance waiting there." He assured his friend gently. "Hold on a bit…"

The plane bounced violently on the runway, and John's grip on Sherlock tightened just so slightly, his eyes tightly closed.

"Sherlock.." he babbled.

"I've got you."

The aisles cleared in seconds as emergency barged through, carrying hydroxocobalamin and sodium thiosulfate in arms.

"Get him on the stretcher." they yelled between each other as John finally managed to open his eyes again without dizzying.

"Sherlock?" his eyes swam through his blurry vision. Somehow, he'd been left behind in the aisles. He almost certainly heard someone call out his name.

...But maybe he'd been mistaken.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock tentatively inched forward and took his friend's hand. The room was achingly dull; white floor, white walls, a lingering, suspicious smell of bleach - the only splash of color was John, huddled like a baby underneath a thin spread of blankets. He was probably still were still administering doses of hydroxocobalamin and sodium thiosulfate, and his cheeks were pale, his body limp, his hand cold. He was a dead man with a pulse.

Sherlock hated himself. He'd almost _killed_ him. What exactly was the point of him if he couldn't notice his own friend suffocating beside him?

"You don't deserve him" Sherlock catapulted into his mind palace and swung around, face to face with Moriarty.

"What?" he gritted his teeth at the sight of his enemy. His formidable enemy.

"I said you don't _deserve_ him Sherlock." Moriarty snarled, taunting him. Nearly laughing at him. "Naughty boy, Sherlock. So naughty. You've really let John Watson down…"

"You haven't done much good either." He replied icily, but his enemy was already circling him. He'd already gotten him, because he was right, so, so right…

'Uh - uh - uh" He wagged his finger. Mycroft wagged his finger, too. Mycroft would surely be disappointed. "You've always been the _slow_ little brother, Sherlock." Moriarty quickly caught up to his thoughts."Even _Mycroft_ would be disappointed. And he _loves_ his little Sherlock."

"He doesn't" Sherlock desperately argued.

"Well not _anymore_ " His shape had shifted, to someone taller, someone wiser.

"Not anymore, brother mine."

Sherlock snapped to reality, his hand tightly clasped around John's wrist. He let go, sweating, at the sight of John's open eyes.

"John.. I'm so , I'm -" He stuttered. "Sorry" he finally settled on the simple apology, staring intently at the floor.

John stared up at his friend, awkward, reddening, obviously despising himself. Even in his semi - drugged state, he always knew what Sherlock was feeling. His eyes were clear and cold, yet they gave him away - they were electric blue when he was focused. They were damp green when he was lonely and sad.

They were damp green now.

He was just arm's reach away, so John stretched out his aching arms, all the way to Sherlock's coat, and clutched them with all the strength his fingers had left.

"Don't leave" He struggled with the slurred speech, and the seemingly foreign tongue in his mouth. "I'm not mad. You saved me."

With that, he collapsed back into his bed, Sherlock edging quickly back to his side.

"I'm not going anywhere" he assured him quickly. "I'm always here for you, John." And with that, their hands grasped each other's again.

John smiled to himself - he was always like this. He always needed to be the saviour, the hero, no matter what he said.

His eyes sparkled electric blue again.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Ah haha, I didn't know author's notes were really a thing; but hi everybody! Thank you for the follows and nice comments :) Thank you for bearing with me and waiting, I know it's a pain, but I can assure you, chapters will come faster than new seasons of Sherlock ;)

The hills of Switzerland beckoned as they made their way through the storybook scenery all the way to their hotel. John's bags were slung over Sherlock's shoulders, much to John's indignation ("Of Course I'm well enough to carry them, they released me a week ago!") His protests fell on deaf ears.

Despite how well he said he felt, John collapsed onto the bed once they arrived. Sherlock observed, and a soft smile played on his lips.

"I thought we were getting dinner?" he prodded, his scarf already loosely tied about his neck. "You need to eat, John, the doctor said so!"

"You never do," John giggled in his sleepy stupor. Sherlocked huffed.

"It's not necessary for _me."_ Sherlock explained, as if he were a child. "I'm going out. I've got things to do." His friend looked up, suddenly interested.

"Christ, Sherlock, what're you going to do?" In seconds, John had scrambled up, attentive and ready; he looked like a soldier, forced out of his barracks at 4 am on a state of emergency. "I'll come with you!"

"No you won't!" Sherlock frowned. It was annoying, the way John insisted to care for him. He didn't need it, he told himself, knowing full well he did. Besides, John was the one who was still weak. He couldn't bring him with him, no matter what. Sherlock looked intently at the floor and swallowed every hint of want in his voice. "I"ll see you tomorrow morning." The door slammed shut behind him.

John sat and waited for about ten minutes. Then he shot out the door to follow.

Sherlock knew he would.

"You got here faster than I thought you would." Sherlock spun around, his coat flaring at the ends, and John's face melted into a laugh.

"How in the _hell_ do you always know I'm behind you?"

"You have a very distinctive gate," he explained, "like a hobbit's."

"Hobbits don't make a sound!"

"Oh, shut up." Sherlock sealed his lips together to contain a laugh, however pointless it was. John saw all too well the glow in his detective's eyes.

"Where are we going now?" He asked as they folded themselves into a racing cab.

Sherlock skillfully popped his collar, and John braced himself.

"We're going to CERN." Sherlock finally explained. John's look of concern went unnoticed. "I've got my brother's credentials. What Moriarty wants is the container of antimatter in a concealed chamber in a concealed glass that no one has any chance of getting into."

"Then how on earth are we getting in?"

"I've got my brother's credentials," Sherlock repeated, exasperated. The cab screeched to a halt, and they stepped out to face the towering hills. The alps framed the valley beneath them, and the depression held the research facility in its grassy palms.

"It's what normal people would call - scenic, isn't it?" the detective threw a sideways glance at his friend, who looked unusually pale. "Are you alright?"

John nodded, but it was a lie, like it always was. The valley was dizzying, and he couldn't imagine making his way down the wiry path, it looked like ages, and heights, heights reminded him of… he shook his head. He threw an awkward glance right back at Sherlock, because without a doubt, he'd been observing him the whole time.

His electric blue eyes sparkled against the night. "Give me your arm."

The thing John liked the most about Sherlock was that he never asked questions. One hand around his shoulder, no questions asked. Helping him down, no questions asked. Stopping when his breath quickened, no questions asked. If only he would answer them.

But it was dark, and if it wasn't, maybe John would've noticed Sherlock's face; the face that twisted in agony every time he stopped, short of breath, the face that fell every time he staggered. It was an expression that could've answered John's every question with a single glance. But it was dark. And when they finally reached the facility, and Sherlock swept his credentials deftly down the side of the door, the whole insides were dark too, every light shut.

Sherlock stepped forward cautiously, a hand out in front to keep John behind, which John swiftly dodged. In seconds he was to the detective's side, pistol in hand, his ears perked.

"What the hell is going on?" His friend was quiet, but John knew he knew. He knew it wasn't good. "I'm not going anywhere," he responded to the worry Sherlock hadn't voiced. Without warning, a hand slipped warmly into his palm.

"Run."

John tightened his grip and they ran.


End file.
